I'm Nobody! Who are you?
by celcette
Summary: Who would have thought being a "nobody" would lead to getting to know the biggest "somebody"of all, Quinn Fabray? Certainly not Mike Chang. Quinn x Mike. Fabang. Oneshot.


**Title: I'm Nobody! Who are you?**

**Characters:** Mike Chang and Quinn Fabray

**Author's Note:** So I haven't written anything, Fabang or otherwise, in the longest time! Zero inspiration, I tell you! But this came to me today and, in an attempt to get myself writing again, I decided to pursue it. It's a poem written by Emily Dickinson that has always stuck out to me. I'm not into poetry, but it's definitely something that's always made me thing. For those of you who may not be aware of it, it's basically about anonymity and how it has its upsides. It talks about how being "somebody" isn't all it's cracked up to be, and that it's okay to be nobody, because there are fellow nobodies out there. This fic was far less romantic than I intended, but it gives us some canon depth on Quinn and Mike, and I believe that to be a great thing. Plus, there's a nice, fluffy little end at the bottom so yey!

**Reviews are appreciated!**

* * *

_I'm nobody! Who are you?_

_Are you nobody, too?_

_Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!_

_They'd banish us, you know._

_How dreary to be somebody!_

_How public, like a frog_

_To tell your name the livelong day_

_To an admiring bog!_

* * *

_Summer before Sophomore Year_

I am Mike Chang and I am nobody.

Ask _anyone_… Well, upon further reflection, don't, because chances are they won't know who I am… Which, in a sense, proves that I am nobody. So go right ahead and ask _anyone_; I am nobody.

Ask Rachel Berry, whose verging on neurotic, ever reliable memory seems to flicker at the mention of me.

Ask Brittany Pierce, whose Cheerio skirt has seen my bedroom floor more than it has her dance-toned ass.

Ask Finn Hudson, whose blind side has been protected by, you guessed it, yours truly, on _and off_ the field since seventh grade.

Ask Tina Cohen-Chang, whose been begrudgingly forced to visit Honey Pepper, Lima's local, authentic Chinese restaurant, enough times to break a record in her parents' failed attempt to entice her away from her handicapable boyfriend, Artie Abrams, with _me_.

You get the gist of it; I am nobody to anybody. If I am being completely honest, and considering that you are most likely already viewing me as nobody and therefore will not judge or _care_, it doesn't hurt. It doesn't give me some inner yearning to be accepted by the anybodies of this town.

Rachel, Kurt, Santana-they view anonymity as a curse. It isn't. It has it perks; no ice cold Slushies thrown in my face, no pornographic pictures on the bathroom stalls and certainly no smear campaigns on Jacob Ben Israel's blog. But most of all, it gives me peace. Never do I have to hear wild gossip of my sexual exploits or rumored affinity for panda bears through the halls. In short, anonymity means no pressure. And no pressure, coming from a boy whose heard the words _Harvard, cardiothoracic surgeon and top SAT score _for most of his life, is a welcome "curse."

* * *

_Fall of Sophomore Year_

Lima, in a sense, is one large town of nobodies. Of course, that doesn't stop afore mentioned nobodies to believe they are somebody. I look at Coach Sue Sylvester, with her highly priced tracksuit and condescending, slightly racist slurs from above the bleachers. At first glance, she looks like somebody. She sure as hell as the swagger of a somebody. And with six national cheerleading championships, no one would ever contest it. But at the end of the day, she still enters her run of the mill, Honda Civic and drives to her one bedroom apartment located in _Lima_. She's still surrounded by nobodies. She's still, despite any words of superiority, mediocre. She's still a nobody, and no amount of trophies will ever change that.

But who am I to talk when I join New Directions, albeit hesitantly, in an unconscious attempt to make myself somebody?

I still sit in the back, I still say as little as I can and I _still _am the epitome of a nobody, an outcast, in a group of outcasts, shy of perhaps Kurt Hummel or Rachel Berry.

But as they don't say, nobody loves other nobodies.

Or maybe that's just me.

* * *

_Winter of Sophomore Year_

She is the biggest somebody I've ever laid eyes upon. I've known this since freshman year, when she captivated all thirty-seven upper classmen the very second she pushes past the large doors of William McKinley High School.

I remember the moment vividly. It's the very first day of high school, and my father, the Michael Chang Senior, met all of my teachers prior to the school bell ringing. As I led him out, I see _her_. I see _somebody_! An actual somebody; someone iridescent in a sea of pure dullness. And she's beautiful, a true stunner dowsed head-to-toe in conservative, unintentionally sexy, clothes.

She made her way down the hall, hands resting on her hips with her head held high. Every pair of eyes landed on her, and strangely enough, in that moment, I felt possessive. That's until she found her way to Finn Hudson, newly proclaimed it-boy, and he had to remind himself that somebody belongs with somebody, too.

And was just nobody. I still am just nobody.

And she's…

She's Quinn "Somebody" Fabray.

But then it happens, the year's largest scandal. Quinn "Somebody" Fabray, with her tightly pinned up high ponytail and armor in the form of a red, white and black Cheerio uniform is pregnant. Quinn "Somebody" Fabray, who made the fucking celibacy club, is pregnant.

And before I or anyone else knew it, she fell from her high post as the head "somebody" of McKinley High School to a regular nobody.

Just another face.

Just another girl.

Just another person.

And yet, even with our now leveled playing ground, she still doesn't give me the time of day.

* * *

_Spring of Sophomore Year_

"Emily Dickinson," I find myself looking up from size twelve, Times New Roman font imprinted on a freshly printed piece of paper to an iridescent pair of hazel eyes. Such perfect, wonderful eyes that could only belong to one culprit; Quinn Fabray. The urge to continue staring into them overwhelm me, but judging from the way her lips curl unhappily, I decide to relent.

"Pardon?" I ask, voice low and intimidated. Even with her newly dethroned Queen Bee status and bulging stomach, she still clung onto her mightier-than-thou attitude.

"It's for Pizon's class, right?" we're standing in the empty library, the only other sound being that of the clock's small hand moving. "His assignment on American poets?"

"Yeah," _yeah?_ I've spent a year, twelve months, fifty two weeks, three hundred and sixty five days, eight hundred and sixty hours and some obscenely large number of minutes and seconds looking up to her as if she's a damned angel and the single moment she acknowledge my existence, I choose to say "yeah?"

"I got Edgar Allan Poe," I wonder if her voice has always sounded like a string of perfect notes moving together in symphony. I wonder if she always smelled like this, like lavender soap and heaven. Could anyone even smell like heaven?

Wait. It's Quinn "Somebody" Fabray (despite her ostracized reputation). She isn't just anyone. I reconsider.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he's pretty twisted,"

And cue awkward silence.

Damn my lack of words.

"I'm nobody. Who are you?" I'm not sure how long the silence has gone on, or how long I've been standing before the copy machine or when she founds a chair and rested her back against it. I cast my eyes towards her, baffled at the question. She must know, right? After all, between Glee Club and social gatherings, she must know? Then again, we've never truly spoken to each other. I rake my brain, realizing that, apart from a coincidental wave in each other's direction, they've never shared words. Or looks. Just social circles and the same line in whatever Journey song Mister Schuester selected.

But her eyes, those iridescent pair of hazel eyes, do not waver. She's dead serious.

I open my mouth, ready to whip my hand out and formally introduce myself to the girl of my dreams (how awfully cliché is my infatuation over this one girl?) when she cuts me off.

"Are you nobody too?"

What the fu-Oh! The poem! Emily Dickinson. American poetry. She's being playful. She's being witty. Or she could just be luring me in with her soft alto and softer yet guarded gaze in some backhanded attempt to humiliate me.

I feel the corners of my lips twitch up, and without hesitating, I sit across from her, watching her steadily.

"Then there's a pair of us-don't tell. They'll strangle us, you know." I murmur and, taking a chance, reach for her hand.

Suddenly, it isn't a matter of somebody and nobody, because in that afternoon in the confines of the dingy library, we're a pair.

* * *

_Summer before Junior year_

I find Tina Cohen-Chang and Quinn finds a toned stomach and a 20% off coupon from the Goodwill for giving them _all _of her maternity dresses.

Both Tina and her rise to status have something in common, I realize: they fill the void.

* * *

_Fall of Junior year_

I think I'm in love with Tina. I don't know when it clicked in my mind or when I chose to accept it, but the thought has made itself known and there's no going back. Only going forward. I think I stole that line from somewhere, but come on, original thought has long been abandoned anyways. But if the only place to go is forward, with Tina, with dance, with being somebody to someone, why do I still look back on the hazel-eyed girl whose one second away from falling apart?

Better yet, why do I keep moving forward anyways?

* * *

_Winter of Junior year_

All twelve of us sit in a circle in Mister Schuester's apartment, a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a twenty-dollar gift in another. I nestle against the large bear wearing a Pokemon T-shirt with a bow resting on top, shielding the name tag until my name is called up.

The loud drum beat emitted by the bongo drums in Finn Hudson's hands (given by Santana along with a snide comment) as I led myself and Henry, aka the large bear wearing a Pokemon T-shirt, make our way over to Mercedes Jones. She envelopes me in a tight embrace, a few words of gratuity expressed by her, before I find my way back to my spot.

Quinn then stands up, looking as Quinn Fabrayic as ever with her Cheerios uniform and Miss America grin, and something in my "in love with Tina Cohen-Chang mindset" cracks as I hope for her to come to me. But instead, she finds Rachel Berry, and begrudgingly hands her a Christmas themed bedazzler set.

As I walk towards the coat hanger, the last to leave the impromptu Christmas celebration, a tiny red box hangs off the pocket. I raise my eyebrows and reach for it, impatiently tugging on the paper until the object makes itself known.

A book.

A hardbound, decadent looking book.

Okay then…

I crack it open gracefully (Well, more like I dropped the book and it happened to crack open at the very first page) and am immediately attacked by a spiel written in neat cursive on the front page.

_To Nobody,_

_I'm not one for poetry, but it turns out poetry is the one for me. Or at least that's what these semi-passable poems prove. Keep it to yourself, nobody. If somebody were to find out, they'd banish us, you know?_

_From,_

_Nobody, too_

* * *

_Spring of Junior Year_

"Anybody out here?" the voice of the heavens, or to be less dramatic, Quinn Fabray's, break the silence. Everyone witnessed the heartbreaking sight that is Kurt Hummel's win for Prom Queen. Everyone witnessed the inevitable smackdown between Jesse Saint Jerkoff and Finn Hudson. Everyone witnesses Santana Lopez, a stone cold bitch, run away in tears.

Unfortunately, apart from Rachel Berry, I'm the only one who witnessed Quinn's departure to the girls' washroom.

"Just nobody," I answer her simply, a comforting light smile finding my face as I gesture to the vacant seat beside me.

"I doubt that," says Quinn. She shuts the door behind her, striding over towards me, her long baby blue dress flowing perfectly down her body. Even in a state of absolute, crushing heartbreak, she looks every bit like an angel.

"Angels shouldn't be crying," I can't help but say. Turns out, a year of dating and loving (as well as secretly doubting) Tina Cohen-Chang has made me outspoken. My version of outspoken, anyways.

"Haven't you heard? Even angels cry."

"They shouldn't,

"Doesn't mean they don't anyways,"

There's a silence (isn't there always when it comes to me?) with the only audible sound being Quinn's shaky breaths and sobs. I want to reach for her, the unattainable beauty, and hold her. I want to say that it's okay to not be okay, it's okay to fall apart, it's okay to miss the beautiful Beth Corcoran and not want her at the same time. I want to say that she's beautiful in every sense of the word, and that genuine beauty always survives, but as I open my mouth, ready to say such words, her eyes meet mine.

Those wonderful pair of tear-strained, blood shot yet iridescent hazel eyes.

It wouldn't help.

It just fucking wouldn't.

She needed something else.

"You're really talented," I begin.

"What?"

"All those poems…" I trail off, and I say it with absolute truth. The girl can write. As in, _write_. Not just put sentences together and make something, but write something. Something worth being read. "They were…"

Magnificent? Beautiful? Awesome? Amazeballs? Spectacular? The bomb? ?

"Iridescent,"

She blinks a number of times, tears beginning to dry, as she meets my hesitant eyes.

"Do you even know what that word means?" I can't help but chuckle. I almost forgot that this was Quinn Fabray I was talking to. "It means seeing different colors when moving something in different angles," she elaborates

"Exactly. That's how all your poems are," she nods, urging me to go on.

"You know that one you wrote? About the sheep?"

"Yeah,"

"Yeah!" I say, a bit more enthusiastic than I should be considering I'm sitting beside a teary-eyed Quinn in the choir room. "If you take it in a literal sense, it makes you think that the sheep left because she didn't care for the flock. If you take it metaphorically, the sheep never left and so on. They can be taken in different ways depending on how you look at them, but whichever way you look, they're always colorful. Always interesting," I catch a breath. Those are more words than I'm used to saying. That I've said in general, really.

She watches me, studies me and I can feel her sobs lessen and lessen until they no longer exist.

I feel a swell of pride.

I take a chance and go on.

"A lot like you," now this really catches her attention. "I know you don't want to admit it, but you aren't one-dimensional, Quinn. You're mighty complex. And I know you don't believe it either, but that isn't a bad thing. Just because you have layers and angles and battle scars, it doesn't mean you're any less Quinn. Any less loved or wanted or validated." I suck in a breath and let it flow right out. All this time I've watched Quinn, fascinated with how much of a "somebody" she is. I never considered there to be more beyond that.

Turns out, she hasn't either.

* * *

_Summer before Senior Year_

Tina and I consummate our relationship. Quinn dyes her hair pink and dates a forty-year-old skateboarder.

Both Tina and her newfound persona share a common feature: it doesn't change how we feel.

* * *

_Fall of Senior Year_

She's lost. I'm lost.

One afternoon, we bump into each other coincidentally. In the dance room, no less.

I'm angrily moving his legs to the beat when I spot her. She's clad head-to-toe in black, her pink hair the only shed of color I can make out from her. Rumors were flying of my dad's feelings towards dance, and more importantly, of how my role in West Side Story was hanging on a thread.

"Skank number one," I don't mean to be impolite, but between the stress and the disappointment, it comes out. Quinn sneers, striding towards me before staring at me meaningfully.

"How public, like a frog. To tell your name the livelong day. To an admiring bog," I raise an eyebrow, baffled. He may have grown appreciative of their long running little thing with Emily Dickinson, more specifically that poem, but he's only ever gotten the first stanza down thus far. And between Harvard versus NYU troubles and parental disputes and the impending distance between Tina and myself come Fall of next year, I'm not exactly itching to figure it out.

"I'm no modern day Shakespeare, Quinn. You'll have to explain," I grumble.

"It _means_, everything around you doesn't mean much when it comes down to it," for a moment, I see her. The Quinn I knew was begging from freedom from her horrendous clothes and even more horrendous emotional incapacities. "And that, well… You have to take pride in what you are and what you want,"

"He's my father, he isn't just some bog," I reason with her.

"Like that means anything," murmurs Quinn condescendingly.

"Excuse me?"

"Look at my dad, Mike. He fucked me over the second I chose to be public like a frog about who I am and my stupid fucking pregnancy. I realize now I don't need him, nor do I need anyone else," she's hurting. God, will she ever stop hurting? Maybe Emily Dickinson was onto something, maybe being somebody wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

And then I do something, something low of me, I move my eyes from her pink hair down to her boots and then meet her guarded, soulless and defeated eyes. Finally, I speak up.

"If you're going to be like that, no wonder no one needs you either," it's the frustration talking. She came in with her holier-than-thou exterior and ragged on my father and his importance. He's hurting me, its unquestionable, but he's my father. He went to the moon and back to give me what I have, and she dare insinuate that I just toss him away like last week's lunch?

"Thank God I'm nobody then," Quinn says curtly, her hand smacking my cheek before turning away.

* * *

_Winter of Senior Year_

"Hey Yale!" I'm unaware I yell the words until those newly brightened hazel eyes land right on me. Her wispy, dyed _back_ blonde hair flows with the wind. She sits on the bleachers, legs crossed like a poised, modern day Grace Kelly. She has a pen in one hand and her future in another.

I've never felt so proud.

"Hey Tisch!" she beams her pearly whites at me, practically blinding me with just how white her teeth are.

"I didn't get in yet," I point out.

"Only a matter of time. I foresee it, Chang"

"And what Quinn Fabray foresees…"

"Always come true," she supplies. I smirk up at her, shoving my hands into my pocket. There's a silence, but not because I'm at a lack of words or because Quinn needed time to weep, but because she's reaching for my neck and crushing her body close to mine.

I hear a 'thank you' over the sound of my heart beating for the girl of my dreams, the queen of iridescence and how she has made being _nobody_ a thrill.

* * *

_Spring of Senior Year_

"The four years I've spent as a student in William McKinley High School have been a rollercoaster. It's all twists and turns and loops; bland moments followed by moments of terror and moments of glee,"

I, along with a hundred and twenty seven students of 2012's graduating class, conglomerate on the football field, dressed in red togas as we listen to the class valedictorian, Quinn "somebody yet nobody and still spectacular" Fabray, address us with her speech. It's a hell of a speech. Believe me, I'd know. I had to listen to her repeat it over and over again.

"I've watched myself rise to the top and fall to the bottom, as well as float in the middle. I've watched us _all_ do that, for no one is truly ever on top or stuck at the bottom. It's that rollercoaster that is high school, that is _life_ that will carry us forward" she coughs inwardly, her luscious pink lips pursing before continuing.

"Emily Dickinson was a firm believer that anonymity is well and good when you have someone, anyone-a fellow nobody," she doesn't look at me. She doesn't have to.

Emily Dickinson is our thing, and even if we've never been friends, even if we've never shared anything beyond _moments_ and a few pointless conversations, we have something. We get it. We get each other. And that's enough for me.

"My advice, the only sound advice I have beyond _not_ getting a Ryan Seacrest tattoo on a whim, is this; cherish the anonymity, the joy in being on the outside and not _wanting_ to look in. Croak like a frog to the foggy surroundings around you and never apologize for being who you are, wanting what you want and being nobody. Because, and this I promise you, being nobody is some of the most _fun_ you can have,"

* * *

_Six years later_

"Look at what the 'R' train dragged in," blinking, I move my eyes around, hands still tangled around my scarf. My eyes shift from one person to another, before eventually landing on the source of those words.

"I got off the Q train," I answer breathlessly, the sight of the angelic nobody taking me by surprise. Quinn isn't exactly what I was expecting when I decided to leave my apartment in pursuit of coffee at the nearest Starbucks. I can't help but gape (old habits die hard) at the sight of her.

Quinn's once curly locks were now pin-straight and ran down all the way to her waist. Her baby doll dresses or cheerleading uniform or her gothic excursion attire seemed completely irrelevant based on her choice of clothes; a silk green top, a pair of dark blue jeans by Calvin Klein (I only know this because the label is on the back pocket, and let's face it, the woman's still got the best _ass_ets he's ever seen) and a pair of daring pink heels.

"I'd like to think I was the only Q in your life," I pause, gaping at her dubiously. She sounded like she was… Like she was…

No. She wouldn't be _flirting_ with me.

Head out of high school hang up lobe, please.

"You'd think that," I respond pathetically. She swirls her white coffee cup in her hand, raising an eyebrow in slight offense.

"I'm bad at this," I excuse myself.

"At what?" she pries.

"Taking to someone," I mutter pathetically. God, six years since high school, since I've seen the spitfire that has intrigued me for so long, and I still babble on like a little idiot. I've had a string of girlfriends since high school, from flings to long time relationship, and I can easily boast that I've long surpassed my awkward adolescent stage.

Not when it comes to Quinn.

"Thank god I'm not _someone_, I'm nobody. Are you nobody, too?" and there it is. I crack a grin, a surge of confidence running through my system. I find grasp her coffee cup and place it right into the bin.

"What the-" she begins, eyes narrowed in exasperated confusion.

"I'm buying you coffee,"

"Why?"

"Because I'm nobody, and so are you, and now we can finally be a pair," her cheeks burn, a blush from what I can tell, and I decide it's about time I just go for it. I grasp her chin with my fingers and tilt it to the left, allowing my lips to brush against her soft cheek.

See? I was right. There are perks to being a nobody. The number one being that, with the right person, being nobody is ten times more gratifying than being somebody.


End file.
